


cats have claws

by pinkmanite2 (Pinkmanite)



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Girl!Brinksy, Implied Alex DeBrincat/Dylan Strome (but not the focal point), More of a Brinksy Character Study, Re: Brinksy Fight, Reaction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/pinkmanite2
Summary: Alexandra DeBrincat is a lot of things, but among them: a Chicago Blackhawk, a top line winger, and apparently a part-time goon.





	cats have claws

The thing is, Ally is usually pretty humble, even when she doesn’t have to be. She’s pretty good about it, has always strived to be better, even when she’s objectively the best. That’s just way she likes to think about hockey, the way she motivates herself to be better and better.

But it’s times like these, the rare occasion where she allows herself to stand up and maybe not be so humble for once.

After all, she _did_ beat the shit out of Josh Manson, and fucking Ryan Getzlaf, too.

Let her be proud.

The adrenaline of it doesn’t really fade out, especially when it mixes into the high of a good, solid win. Between her and Saader, the locker room is practically buzzing, and she can’t really remember the last time it had felt this alive.

“Nice one, ya goon,” Hayds leans over from his stall, right next to Ally’s, as soon as she shucks off her bucket. He grins a little devilishly, and before Ally know what’s going on, he grabs her in a headlock and goes to town on the noogie.

“John Hayden, I swear to god,” she half-threatens, half-heartedly swatting at him, but it loses most of its effect in her laughter.

“Oh ho, you think you’re coming for my spot? New enforcer, eh, Brinksy?” Hayds keeps going, even if he lets up a little bit.

That’s his mistake, because Ally isn’t one to back down.

“That’s right,” she grins, just this side of wicked, right before she rotates them, effectively wrestling Hayds to the ground. Now with the upper hand, Ally doesn’t hesitate in dishing it right back, ruining Hayds’ perfect head of hair.

“Hey!” He protests, even if he’s not the least bit upset, “I literally just brushed that shit!”

“Shoulda thought about that,” Ally hums.

But eventually Jonny stalks up to them and tries to look stern, but fails miserably to hide his amusement. “Alright, kids, wrap it up, media’s coming in.”

“Yes, Cap,” Ally singsongs, mocking, but she gets up and lets Hayds go, anyway.

Jonny gives her a look, but it’s not as serious as it could be. Ha, the irony. “Be good for the cameras,” he tuts, fulfilling his captainly duties.

Ally blinks at him innocently. “Of course.”

He shakes his head and waves her off, but he’s smiling all the same.

The media comes in and they’re all over her, mics shoved hastily into her space. But Ally doesn’t mind so much, not when she’s still buzzing on the energy of her scrap, the pride of defending her own honor.

Okay, actually? Ally won’t lie; she’s fucking living for this press.

But somewhere in the back of her head, she remembers Coach Q’s kind of disapproving look and Jonny’s little nudge, so she does her best to recall her well-practiced media answer, careful to save face and bring the good ol’ Blackhawks hammer down on gooning around.

But once that’s all done and over with and the reporters have filed out, all she can think about are the dropped jaws on her boys’ faces, the pride and the rally that swelled up for the rest of the game.

She did that.

It’s easy to goad the guys into coming out, especially when everyone’s already riding on her energy. Saader is especially easy, and when she goes around bragging about his pair for him, most of the team is even more easily persuaded.

Ally feels pretty triumphant when she even gets the old guys to agree to a couple drinks (“but no shots, Brinks, I swear I’m too fucking old for that”). While she knows it’s partially because they still feel this paternal duty to look out for her, she fully accepts the other part, where she’s sure they’re drawn to her charisma.

Ally bullies Schmaltzy and Haydsy into sharing an Uber with her, but then Jokes and Dom and Forts are dishing out puppy eyes so they end up splurging on an XL. She doesn’t mind all that much because it at least makes for a good finsta pic: Ally sitting shotgun with the rest of her boys piled up in the back, grainy in the darkness but still visible enough to make the cut.

“We’re gonna get Saader fucked up,” she declares, once she’s finished uploading the pic.

“We’re gonna get _you_ fucked up,” Schmaltzy counters.

“You don’t have to get me fucked up,” Ally says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to get _myself_ fucked up.”

“She really missed out on the whole college thing, huh,” Hayds observes to no one in particular.

But Ally doesn’t let it slide. “Oh please, Mr. Yale, I’m sure you had some real Ivy League ragers,” she rolls her eyes. Hayds opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off before he can speak. “Besides, I went to boarding school _and_ the O, I think that’s enough to make up for missing out on frat parties.”

Schmaltzy, bless his heart, elbows a defeated Hayds in the arm and laughs along.

 

~

 

Ally likes to flirt.

It’s not even that she does it on purpose, it’s just in her nature, her personality. She’s a good midwestern girl, has that sweet small town charm. And she’s more than comfortable around men, maybe even more so than she is around other women. So it’s a natural thing, the way she draws guys in and manages to always leave them wanting.

Ally likes to flirt, but that’s not why she’s here, even as she accepts the train of free shots and offers up a little wink before she downs each one.

The bartender definitely knows who she is and therefore definitely knows she’s underage, and if he wasn’t a hundred percent sure before then he probably can confirm when he surveys the rest of her party. And, you know, when she pulls out an old Tennessee ID that says _Andrea DeBrincat_ in blocky blue letters.

“I know you have enough ELC money to get your own,” Schmaltzy teases, flicking at the thin plastic before Ally can put it away. “Should probably use a fake name, too.”

Ally rolls her eyes, because really it’s just a formality and trying to hide her identity would be useless. Although she’d never admit it, everyone in this city knows exactly who she is.

“Andi’s does me just fine,” she shrugs, then slips it back into her purse.

But Schmaltzy isn’t totally useless, especially not when he orders a tray of Jack shots and pushes one into Ally’s hands, two into Saader’s.

“I’m old,” Saader whines, “don’t make me do two.”

Ally makes a face at him. “You’re twenty-five, buck up.”

“Almost twenty-six,” Saader continues, “that’s like, _old_ old.”

“Hey,” and that’s the perfect moment for Trish to show up, sliding into the stool next to Saader. “If that’s old-old, what does that make me?”

“A grandma,” Saader grumbles, then holds up the shot and downs it in one well-practiced tip.

“Now there’s some good Stanley Cup Champion form,” Trish nudges at him approvingly. “Knew you still had it in ya.” Saader rolls his eyes.

Trish isn’t phased, though. She winks at Ally over Saader’s shoulder, then flags down the bartender. “Two shots of Patron and a 312,” she grins.

“Sure you can handle all that, granny?” Ally teases.

Trish doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not,” she says, easily. “I’m going to happily sip my old lady beer while you and Brandon here accept my congratulatory tequila.”

“Oh for fuck’s,” Saader groans, but it’s a little lighter, and both Ally and Trish know fully well that he’s already been convinced. “I can’t do _tequila_.”

But Trish is already sliding a bowl of limes and a salt shaker down the counter. It barely takes one look until Saader is licking the inside of his wrist and reaching for the salt.

The bartender is approaching with _two_ shots, though, so Ally sighs and dutifully licks her own wrist, too. She holds it out and Saader does the honors of coating the square of wet skin in table salt. He slides her the bowl of limes, too.

“GG,” Ally scoffs, shot in one hand and lime in the other. Saader nods, and then they go for it, sucking at their wrists and slamming their empty glasses back on the counter, mouths full of lime.

Trish laughs over her beer, but she’s making to get up.

“Congrats again, kids,” she says, “be good, make good choices, use condoms,” she waves her hand around. “I’m gonna go find Tazer.”

“Cool, tell grandpa I said hi,” Ally calls after her. Trish doesn’t turn around, but she still manages to flip her off, anyway.

Saader sticks around for a while longer, gets a little bit looser. Hayds and Schmaltzy find them eventually and slide into the barstools next to them. Nick buys them a round of beers and Ally can’t help but capitalize on opportunity.

“Good Sconnie boy with the Millers, that’s my boy,” she grins, even as the bartender hands her a Corona instead.

Schmaltzy takes a second to gulp down his Miller Lite but then looks pointedly at the bottle in Ally’s hand. “I literally got you, specifically, a Corona.”

But Ally winks, juices a lime from the bowl into her drink. She looks at Hayds, not Schmaltzy, when she speaks. “And that’s how I know his love is true.”

“You’re a shit, you know that?” Hayds says, but he’s grinning, and it’s dry of any malice.

“Don’t you forget it,” she hums.

They hang around a while longer, Ally nursing her same Corona for the rest of the night. She declines the shot sent her way from some frat boy across the bar, declines the vodka cran some girls in Hawks jerseys try to buy for her. She’s graceful as she does, of course, but when she finishes off her beer, she’s in for the night.

“Headed out?” And that’s Saader, the only one still keeping a close enough eye on her to notice her packing up and loading up Uber. Married men, sheesh.

He gives her a funny look, one that she can’t quite decipher, but he nods. “Get home safe.”

She smiles, just a little. “Night, Saader.”

 

~

 

Although more or less sober, Ally can still feel herself wobble through the lobby of her building and is decidedly still a little tipsy. It’s fine, though, she deserves it for having a good game, for holding her own. For being here, where she is today.

She doesn’t bother changing out of her bar outfit before FaceTiming Dylan.

He answers on the second ring, his face fading into her screen almost instantly. He’s holding his phone like way too close to his face, but she doesn’t mind. Especially not when he’s grinning at her like that.

“Nice fight, Ally Cat,” he says.

It’s at the same time she says, “So your goal was hot.”

They stop at the same time and kind of look at each other in the way they do, familiar, and Ally bursts into laughter. Dylan follows, never too far behind her.

“Thanks, babe,” Dylan says. “But fuck, you really went at him out there. Did you see his face? _That_ was hot.”

Ally rolls her eyes, but she goes with it, knows Dylan won’t mind if she pats herself on the back. “He was so shook,” she giggles. “And then Ryan fucking Getzlaf had to help him out, can you believe? Creepy old man.”

“Does taking down two of them make you a duck hunter? Is that what you are now?”

“Oh god,” Ally says, “you watched too many cartoons as a kid.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said it.” Dylan pauses to roll over in his hotel bed, wrapping the comforter tightly around himself. “You check the group chat yet?”

“My phone’s been blowing up,” Ally admits sheepishly. “Haven’t had a chance.”

“Nah, we figured. But everyone’s real proud of you, babe. That’s our girl.”

Ally can feel the pride swell in her chest, and she has a sudden pang, a sudden flash of missing her boys, her team, her second family. She’s built a place for herself on the Hawks, and she loves her big league guys, of course she does. But there’s something special about juniors.

And, no Dylan, it’s not just a special connection of teaching a bus full of teenage boys how to undo a bra clasp. It’s _deeper_ than that, okay?

Ally doesn’t know how to explain it, but she realizes that the sentiment is clear on her face, because Dylan sighs and is looking at her all fond, as he does sometimes.

“I’m so proud of you,” Dylan says, soft. “God, I love you.”

There’s a thump in her chest, and Ally is suddenly hyper-aware of everything she has, everything she’s accomplished, everything she’s earned and made for herself.

“Thanks Dyl,” she sighs, content, and lets herself snuggle into her pillows. “Love you, too.”

She’s proud, too.

And she’ll let herself have it.

  
  



End file.
